The Measure of a Man
Author: Pipsqueak
Rating: PG-13 for the most part (one section will be posted separately in both PG-13 and NC-17 versions)
Spoilers: TOIM, Possessed, EoME, TNS, references to Ralph, FFH, GT, MM
Category: Angst, Drama, Action, Romance (or any combination thereof. Do not fold, spindle or mutilate)
Disclaimer: Not mine, except for Lola and a few other sundry characters I'll name later -- everyone else belongs to Sci Fi and Stu Segall, damn them (
A/N: Well, I once swore that I'd never write a sequel, just like I swore I'd never create an OFC. Apparently I am destined to eat every word I've ever said. 'Cuz this is a sequel to "Standing Still," a fanfic I originally posted back in Nov/Dec of 2001 and which features an OFC named Lola. It can be found in the Iman section at fanfiction.net (note to self: remember to send your stories to the QS archive) and while I'd recommend that you read that story first, I do think this one is capable of standing on its own. So please, read, hopefully enjoy, and feel free to contact me with any feedback or questions....
Mucho thanks to Suz for being such a wonderful beta and my own personal mad scientist. Hobbsey's all yours, sweetie! :-)
And an extra special 'Thank You' to Kitkat for being my on-scene expert. She's the one who made sure Darien & Hobbes wound up in a tres hip club and not at Seaworld :-p
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PART 1
According to the great French statesman, George Clemenceau, "A man's life is interesting primarily when he has failed -- I well know." Yeah, well so do I. In fact, by that definition, I've been a rousing success as a failure. 'Cuz I've sure had one hell of an interesting life. Not the least of which was recently when I met a really great girl and promptly made things interesting by lying to her about ... oh, I don't know, *everything*, including my name. Then I went psycho on her 'cuz I have a gland in my brain that turns me invisible and used to make me go nuts if I didn't get a shot on time. Then she got arrested and interrogated by my employer, The Agency, kinda the Kmart of the spook biz, 'cuz they thought she was with the CIA when in fact she was really just the owner of a local bakery. Oh, and did I mention that all that time we were being chased by Chrysalis, a super-secret organization bent on world domination through biotechnology? No wonder when the Chinese want to curse you they say that they "hope you live in interesting times." Yeah, the Chinese, man, don't even get me started on those guys ....
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"That's it, Fawkes, I'm going in alone." Hobbes reached for the door handle and Darien grabbed him by the shoulder, stopping him.
"Wait, Bobby, you can't..."
"No, that's it. I'm done arguing. We've been sitting here, holed up in this van, all morning watching people come in and outta that place. Bobby Hobbes is not gonna watch one more person come through that door and walk off with the goods."
"But Hobbes, you just can't walk in there alone."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"You gonna come with?"
"No...."
"Then watch me."
Hobbes reached for the door handle again and this time Darien let him exit the van unmolested. When Hobbes was determined to do something, there was simply no stopping him. Darien sighed, slumped in his seat and watched glumly as Hobbes crossed the street. His partner stopped in front of a large shop window chock full of tempting cakes and pastries, with the name "ChezLo" painted across the top in large, cursive gold letters. Hobbes suddenly gave a firm nod of his head at the window, then entered the shop. Oh man, this was gonna be *bad*.
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Five minutes later the little tiger was back, carrying a white paper sack and balancing two large coffee cups. He stopped at the driver's side door of the van and looked pointedly at Darien, who simply stared back. "C'mon, partner, open the door. Help me out here, for chrissakes."
Darien sighed again -- he seemed to be doing a lot of that these days -- and opened the door for Hobbes. He took the cups from the shorter man as Bobby climbed behind the wheel. "What did you do, Hobbes?"
"Whaddya mean, what did I do? I got us two latte grandes and a couple of the flakiest croissants you ever saw in your life. I mean, these things are so light, I keep expecting them to float away...."
"No, what did you *do*?"
"I don't know what you're talking about there, partner. Bobby Hobbes didn't do nothing, but get some coffee and breakfast, well, more like brunch since you made me wait so long," he tossed the white sack at Darien, "Oh, and one of those giant cookies that you like." He grinned expectantly at Darien, who reached into the sack and pulled out a gargantuan oatmeal cookie. "What, don't I even get a 'thank you'?"
"Thanks, Hobbsey," Darien said around a mouthful of cookie and swallowed. "Now tell me what else you did."
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"You didn't talk to her? You didn't see her?"
"Numero Uno, when Bobby Hobbes says he didn't do nothing, he didn't do nothing. Numero Two-o, Lola's hardly any more likely to talk to me than she is to you, my friend. You're forgetting, I arrested her and then let Monroe interrogate her. Somehow I don't think that put me too on high on that girl's social list."
"So you really didn't do anything?"
"Nope. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Bupkiss...."
"OK, Hobbes, OK, I got it."
"Good."
"But you're sure, right? You didn't say anything to anyone...?"
"Look, how many times do I got to say it? I. Didn't. Do. Nothing."
"You're sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
"OK, then." Darien sat for a few seconds, silently munching on his cookie. Halfway through it, he turned to Hobbes with furrowed brows and opened his mouth.
"Don't say it, Fawkes," Bobby cut Darien off with a menacing growl.
"But you're sure, Hobbes?"
"Yes. Yes. I'm *sure*. In fact, I'm sure, I'm sure."
"OK."
They drove on for a few more minutes. This time it was Hobbes who broke the silence.
"Goddammit, Fawkes, what the hell is wrong with you?"
"What do you mean?"
"I've known you to be a whiny punk, partner. In fact, I've learned that you are the frickin' crown prince of whining: about the gland, about the Agency. Hell, I've even heard you whine about having too much salt on your popcorn at the movies, when *you* salted it. But I have never, ever heard you whine about a girl before. Not even when Casey left. So what gives? What's so different about this girl?"
Darien just stared at his partner. Finally he looked down and said softly, simply, "I don't know."
"Yeah? Well, I know one thing, kid, you ain't gonna find out the answer to that question by hiding in the van outside her shop."
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Alex Monroe was already in the 'Fish's office when Darien and Hobbes entered, carrying the remnants of their breakfast. "You know, if you were going to make us wait," the five-star agent commented dryly, "the least you could have done was brought enough for all of us."
"Gee you know, Alex, we would have gotten something at the bakery for you, but we thought you were sweet enough already," Darien deadpanned, throwing her a sugary smile for good measure.
"Aw, and here I thought you were such a tough cookie," she retorted, giving him a matching smile.
"Enough," the Official's imperious tone brooked no argument. "You two want to trade bakery bon mots, do it on your own nickel. Some of us are here to *work*."
Bobby pulled at his collar and shuffled his feet, "Ah yes, sir, Agent Robert Hobbes ready for duty, sir. Have I mentioned recently what an honor I consider it to be back at the Department of Fish & Game? I mean, the Bureau of Weights and Measures just wasn't a prestigious enough organization to do your leadership justice, in my humble opinion, and the cases were ... well, to be frank, sir, they were a bit of a bore."
"Well, then prepared to be bored yet again, Agent Hobbes, because thanks to your partner's antics, we've got some payback due at the BWM."
"What?" The exclamation came out in triplicate as the three agents squawked in surprise.
Eberts smoothly slid up closer to his boss's right-hand side. "Apparently the bill has come due on the havoc wreaked on public and private property as a direct consequence of Darien's recent bout with Stage 5 madness. What with the destruction of an entire picnic area in Balboa Park, the damages assessed for mental pain and suffering for an entire family resulting from the disruption of a funeral, not to mention the replacement cost for one gold Rolex that appears to have been taken from the corpse at said funeral ...." the Agency's resident bean-counter looked up and cocked an eyebrow at Darien, who proffered his wrist with its leather-strapped watch as tacit proof of his innocence. Hobbes, meanwhile, surreptitiously pulled his jacket cuff down over his own wrist. "Hmm, yes, I see," the milquetoast mused.
"Suffice it to say, people," the 'Fish cut in, "that the bill due to the BWM is more than our current sponsor is willing to fund. Therefore, in order to solve this little budgetary crisis, we have agreed to complete one more case for the BWM as remuneration."
"So what is it?" Monroe, as usual, cut straight to the chase.
"It seems," Eberts picked up the narrative thread without batting an eyelash, "that there have been a number of complaints about the inaccurate weighing of produce items at small, independent, minority-owned shops around the city ...."
"What?" Darien cut in. "You mean some housewife complains about her plums being light from the corner bodega and we've got to put three trained agents on the case? Uh uh, no way."
The Official puffed up like a peacock displaying his feathers, "Agent Fawkes, the certification of the accuracy of the scales in our local marketplaces is a vital part of the free-trade policy that has made this nation great."
"Yeah, well, I think it's a stupid case and I'm not going work on it." Darien slid back in his chair and crossed his arms like a petulant five- year old.
"What?" His boss's voice lowered to a dangerous whisper, echoed only by a hushed, "uh oh," from the Fat Man's toady.
"You heard me. It's stupid and I ain't gonna do it. When I transferred back from the FBI, I told you, I wasn't going to work on any cases that I thought were stupid and this one here," Darien pointed a finger and stabbed the top of the 'Fish's desk to emphasize his point, "this is *stupid*. 'Sides, I got some great female wrestlin' videos I been meaning to check out ...."
"Aha, I see. Well, perhaps you might want to check with your fellow agents regarding their feelings about having to clean up your mess while you sit at home and watch scantily clad women grapple with each other," the 'Fish suggested as he leaned back in his chair, a Cheshire smile firmly in place.
Darien turned his head to his left -- the stare he got from Monroe could have cut diamonds. Then he turned his head to his right -- the look on Hobbes' face was so intense, he could have *made* diamonds. Darien gave a little shiver, decided a lifetime of peaceful sleep was worth a few days of boring work, and cleared his throat. "Ah, yah, I, ah, think I could, ah leave those videos on hold a while longer."
Bobby slapped Darien on the back. "Good answer there, partner."
"Yeah, way to be a team player, Fawkes," Monroe tossed out.
"Alright, why don't you two work out the details," Darien suggested to the senior agents. "Then Bobby, you can fill me in later when you meet me in the Keep. Right now it's time for my 50,000 mile check-up."
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Darien was sitting in the administering chair when Bobby entered the Keeper's lab. As usual, he was whining, "Do we really have to keep doing these check-ups *every* week, Keep?"
"Darien, you may no longer need counteragent to flush the Quicksilver toxins from your bloodstream but the fact remains that Quicksilver *is* an artificial substance saturating your system and the gland is a transgenic implant in your brain." Without skipping a beat in her scientific litany, Claire automatically slipped the blood pressure cuff on Darien's arm, pumped it up, deflated it and noted his pressure on her clipboard. Then she began flicking her pen light in his eyes. "There's no telling what effect any of this is going to have on your system long-term. And I'm still concerned about your eyesight."
"Alright, enough already!" Darien jumped from the chair. "This little lab rat's out of here." He slipped his jacket on and headed for the door, hands shoved in his pockets, head down. "You can tell the Fat Man I'm heading home. I'm sure we can start the great weigh-in on Monday."
The doors swished shut and Claire turned to Hobbes for an explanation. "What's set him off?"
"Oh, nothing. He's been moping ever since we got breakfast at the bakery this morning," he replied innocently."I'm telling you, I gain another 5 pounds every time Fawkes gets the yen to sit and mope."
"Oh, no, not Lola again? For God's sake why don't you just tell him to go talk to her?"
"Oh, gee ya think? C'mon, Claire, you know better than that -- that's *all* I been telling him for almost a month now but you know Fawkes. When he don't wanna listen, you can talk till you're blue in the face. And our Sir Galahad has got himself all convinced that he's doing the noble thing by honoring her wishes for him to stay away from her."
"Oh, she didn't really mean that. She was just angry and confused. I mean, it's not every day a girl gets arrested by a secret government agency and finds out the man she's just gotten involved with isn't who he said he was. But she's had plenty of time to cool down now ...."
"Listen, sister, you're preaching to the choir. I mean, I know that and you know that, but, Fawkes, he don't wanna know that. He's got himself all convinced that she hates him and nothing I've said has been able to penetrate that thick skull of his ... must be all that hair." Hobbes rubbed his own hairless head and quirked his eyebrows at Claire.
The blonde scientist sighed and leaned back against the administering chair. "Well, we've got to do something. You know the kind of trouble he gets into when he gets depressed."
"Yeah, well, I'm fresh outta ideas." Bobby casually propped himself up with one hand on the chair, sliding his arm conveniently close to Claire's waist. "What would you suggest there, Keepie?"
"I don't know but leaving him alone to stew in his own juices seems like a bad idea. Why don't you take him out for a guys' night on the town?"
"Ah, I see, kinda the 'ole 'the best way to forget a girl is to find another girl' thing?"
"Precisely -- that's the spirit!" She patted Hobbes on the shoulder for emphasis.
"Problem with that, Claire," he leaned in and lowered his voice, "is that if the first girl is the *right* girl, all the other chicks in the world ain't gonna make you forget her." And in one swift movement he winked at her, clicked his tongue, hitched his pants and turned on his heel, leaving her alone in the Keep to ponder his last words.
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Darien's phone was already on the third ring as he stepped through the door. Dropping his junk mail and a six-pack of his favorite Sierra Falls- brand brew on the counter, he reached over and grabbed the phone. "Fawkes," he stated.
"Hey partner, what's up," Bobby asked.
"Hobbes, man, I left you not 45 minutes ago. What could possibly happen in that amount of time?"
"With *you*?" Hobbes gave a wry laugh. "Anything."
"Hehe, painful, but true," Darien grimaced and shook his head. "What up, buddy?"
"Just wondering what you had planned for this weekend," Hobbes asked in his best nonchalant tone.
"Oh you know, just the usual Roman orgy," Darien rolled his eyes and wagged his head back and forth as he enumerated, "Naked slave girls, dwarves, circus animals ...."
"Aha, I see, which means sitting inside watching TV and reading those Cliff Notes of yours the whole time."
"No, no, it doesn't. As a matter of fact I'm planning on shooting some hoops Sunday morning ...."
Hobbes snorted. "Oh, that's great, you're a real playboy, ain'tcha?"
"And what would *you* suggest there, Mr. Hefner?"
"You, me, hitting the town, tonight."
Darien sighed, rubbed the heel of his palm against an eye, "Ya know what, Bobby? I'm just not up to it tonight, but hey, maybe tomorrow night ..."
"Yeah, right, Fawkes, tomorrow ...."
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Darien's doorbell rang about 7:30 p.m., right in the middle of his favorite Buffy repeat. He was tempted not to answer it, particularly since it was right when Spike gets the chip implanted in his brain, but the ringing had that persistent tone he had come to know oh so well. Looking through the peephole he confirmed his suspicions.
"Hobbes, man, I thought we agreed we were gonna do this *tomorrow* night," he whined as he opened the door.
"Now is that any way to greet your partner, partner?" Hobbes slid past Darien and went straight to the kitchen counter where he deposited a six- pack and what looked to be enough Chinese take-out to feed an army. "Especially when he comes bearing sustenance?"
Darien held up his already open beer in a toast. "Looks like great minds think alike there, bro."
"What, Fawkes, you drinking alone?"
"Hey, it's kinda hard not to when all you ever are is alone."
"Oh, I get it now, you're not drinking that beer, you're just crying into it," Hobbes observed as he cracked himself a brew and automatically scanned Darien's apartment. Sure enough, there were three already-empty bottles on the coffee table and not a dinner plate in sight. Picking up the bag of Chinese, he steered the taller man over to the couch and playfully knocked him down onto it. Then he shoved a container and a pair of chopsticks at Darien. "C'mon eat up, I got your favorite, Firecracker Beef."
"Well, I am kinda hungy," Darien said as he greedily reached out and snatched the container from Hobbes.
"I swear to God, kid, you are an eating *machine*," Hobbes shook his head as Darien began shoveling food into his mouth with gusto. "Course you could do with putting some meat on them scrawny bones of yours, you know? Might stop the mooks from knocking you on your ass all the time. I mean that in itself is a reason for you to go and see Lola. She works in a bakery, maybe she could fatten you up a bit ...."
Darien stopped chewing and shoved his chopsticks upright into his container. "Aw man, Hobbes, we are *not* gonna have this conversation again, are we?"
"Yes, yes, we are. You know, Fawkes, I can count the number of times I've seen you drunk on one hand and three of those times were in the last month. Tonight ...."
"Hobbes, man, I am *not* drunk ...."
"You had four beers by yourself -- that qualifies," Hobbes continued to tick off with his fingers. "*Tonight*, the night you came to your senses and returned to the Agency ...."
"Hey, that doesn't count. That was necessary to get the icky taste of being 'officialed' out of my mouth. 'Sides, as I recall, you and Claire were pretty well in your cups there too that night. So you never did tell me, did you get the good doctor to give you a checkup when you drove her home? Huh?" Darien grinned goofily and began nudging Hobbes in the middle with his elbow.
Hobbes grimaced at Darien and moved to the chair. "Bobby Hobbes would never kiss and tell on a lady. And stop trying to change the subject. Now, as I was sayin', tonight ..." up came a finger, "two weeks ago ..." up popped another finger, "and two weeks before that when Lola stormed out of the Agency," a third and final finger came up. "Now I've asked you before, but *this time* I want an answer, Fawkes: What is it about this girl that is so different?"
Darien put the food container down, shook his head, took another swig of his beer. "I don't know. Maybe it's *me* that's different. When I left the Agency and went to the FBI, it occurred to me that I'd lost *everyone*. I had no one of my own, no one who cared about me enough to stick with me ...."
"You know, *I* care about you, partner and I'd stick with you no matter what ...."
"No offense, Hobbes, but that's not the kind of caring I'm talking about here. It's like Simon Cole, you know. I just keep going back to him and Ivy Peterson."
Bobby nodded at the mention of the Agency's first invisible man whose memories had invaded his partner's brain courtesy of the Quicksilver gland they'd shared. Ivy Peterson had been Cole's lover and seeing her had been one of the first things Simon had done when he'd been 'resurrected' in Fawkes' body.
Darien got up from the couch and began pacing around the living room. "I mean, I had him in my *head*, Hobbes. And maybe I don't have all his memories anymore, maybe they were all flushed away when Claire gave me that anti-peptide shot or whatever it was, but I know one thing: He *loved* her, really loved her. Enough to come back for her. Enough to risk everything to make the world a better place for her. Do you know what that's like, Bobby?" Darien stopped pacing in front of the window, staring out at the soft velvet blue of the evening sky, his face half in shadow. "'Cuz I don't. I don't think I've ever loved anyone that much. But I want to, and I think maybe Lola's the kind of girl I could have done that with -- if I hadn't screwed it up like I did ... like I always do."
Hobbes got up quietly, crossed the room and gently pulled on the younger man's arm until they were facing each other. "Yeah, kid, I do know what it's like. Which is why I'm telling you now, go and see that girl. Don't make the same mistake I did with Viv," Bobby cleared his throat as he bit off his ex-wife's name. "I left it too long and by the time I was ready to tell her how I felt about her, she had given up on me for another man. If you think there's even the slightest chance you could have something with this girl, don't wait, go see her." Hobbes reached up, put a hand lightly on the back of his partner's neck and looked directly into his eyes. "Darien," he said softly, "I mean it. If you never take another piece of advice from me, take this one: Go see Lola. Ask her to forgive you."
Darien shook free of the older man's comforting hands. "I can't, Bobby, I ... just can't."
"Why the hell not?" Hobbes roared as his frustration finally got the better of him.
Darien hung his head and returned to the sofa, grabbing his beer again like a security blanket. "'Cuz what do I do if she says 'no'?"
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Hobbes breathed in a lungful of not-so-fresh air as he exited the industrial-looking apartment building. Man, Fawkes definitely did not live in the better section of town. Bobby thought contentedly of his own little place by the marina and wondered what the kid liked so much about this joint. Maybe he felt at home living among the riffraff that made this section of the city their own, but couldn't he see that he didn't belong with them anymore? Hobbes shook his head. His partner had changed so much from the antisocial, self-centered prick he'd been when they'd first met. Yeah, he was still more often than not a whiney brat, but he'd found a better way of life and he'd decided -- chosen, mind you, not been forced into it -- to stay on the straight and narrow and work to make the world a better place. Why Darien couldn't just let himself be happy was beyond Bobby; God knew the kid deserved a little bit of happiness.
Well, it was 10:43, Fawkes was sleeping it off upstairs, the night was young and he had two more stops to make. Hobbes began whistling as he scanned the area, then confidently made his way to the van. 'If Mohammed won't go to the mountain,' he thought, 'then I'm just gonna have to make the mountain come to Mohammed.'
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It was just under an hour and a quarter later when Hobbes pulled his van up in front of the bakery, having spent a little longer at The Agency than he'd planned. He should have paid more attention to Eberts when the Fat Man had sentenced him to purgatory in the Agency's file room to atone for the sin of complaining. Then again, he hadn't expected the little nerd's filing system would someday be "need to know" information.
With a manila folder tucked tightly under his arm, Hobbes hopped out of the van and inspected the bakery window. The lights in the front of the shop were off and a sign on the door proclaimed, "Closed," but it was a Friday night and he suspected that the rear of the shop was a different story. Rounding the corner briskly, Hobbes located the alley that backed onto Lola's store, automatically scanning his surroundings the whole time. Sure enough he could see a light shining through the window of the shop's rear entrance.
The sounds of a radio blaring Sheryl Crow's "My Favorite Mistake" and an extremely off-key female voice enthusiastically parroting the lyrics greeted Bobby's ears as he came down the dingy passageway. He paused to knock on the back door, decided whoever was inside would never hear him over the musical caterwauling, and tried the knob. The door was locked, but with a little strategic jiggling, it opened easily. 'Definitely *not* a secure environment,' was Hobbes' silent professional assessment.
The back room was some sort of storeroom or pantry, with immense sacks of flour, sugar and other sundry baking ingredients lined up along the walls. To his immediate right was the shiny stainless door of a refrigerated storeroom, where he supposed the more perishable items were kept. The light -- and the noise -- however, was coming from the room directly in front of him.
Passing through the storeroom, he entered the brightly lit space only to be greeted by the sight of Lola standing at a long counter with her back to him and singing along with the radio at the top of her lungs. He watched for a moment as the petite brunette stirred a large bowl of what appeared to be thick yellow jam, mindlessly bopping up and down on her little legs and shaking her bandana-covered head to the rhythm of the music.
"Ah, you need a better lock on that door," he shouted out by way of announcing his arrival.
Lola let out a yelp and jumped back from the counter. Whirling on him, she threw her hands to her chest. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," she exclaimed, "what the hell are you trying to do? Give me a frickin' heart attack?" Then her head snapped back and she froze in recognition. "Oh, it's *you*."
"Hey, you're lucky it's just me and not some punk trying to clean out your cash register," he answered, still yelling over the radio. "Could we maybe turn that down some, do you think?"
Her deep blue eyes never leaving his cognac-colored ones, she reached over to the counter behind her and jabbed at the radio's power switch. "Somehow, Agent Hobbes, I do not associate seeing you with being lucky," she said into the sudden silence. "Let's see, you've already handcuffed and detained me against my will once, what's it gonna be this time? I mean, how do you follow up wrongful arrest? Got a new Taser you want to try out?" Lola screwed her pretty face into a sneer and practically spat at him. "And where's the lovely Agent Monroe? After all, it wouldn't be a party without her playing hostess in that padded cell, now would it?"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down there, sister," Bobby held his hands out in front of him. "I come in peace."
Lola snorted. "What do you want, Agent Hobbes?" The chill in her tone could have solved the global warming crisis.
"Just to talk to you. You know, have a little friendly chit-chat ...," Bobby smiled hopefully at her.
"About what?"
"Oh you know, just shootin' the breeze about how you're doin', how I'm doin', how Fawkes is doin' ...."
"No." She crossed her arms and resolved her lips into a thin, downward facing line.
Bobby waited a minute for her to elaborate and when she didn't, he quirked his eyes at her and shrugged. "What? That's it? Just 'no'? No 'maybe', no 'possibly', no 'what's going on with him that we need to talk about'? Just 'no'?"
"Yes." Lola nodded a brief affirmation.
"Good, good, that's what I like to hear. Accentuate the positive, Bobby Hobbes always says, give the guy the benefit of the doubt," Hobbes enthused, then shook his head. "OK, wait a minute, I'm confused. Was that 'yes' you want to know what I came to tell you or 'yes' you meant just 'no' before?"
"Tell me something, Agent Hobbes. Are conversations with you always this convoluted?"
"Ah, uhm, yeah, I think so. I mean, that's a good thing, right?"
"No, it's not a good thing, at least not from where I'm standing anyway," Lola sighed, pulled the bandana from her head and ran a hand through her dark, chin-length hair. "Look, it's late and I'm tired. Why don't you just go home?"
"Because you need to know some things about Fawkes and I came here to make sure you got the intell," Bobby pointed to the file in his hands. "So unless you're planning on physically moving me, you'd best resign yourself to hearing me out." Planting his feet, he stood ramrod straight transforming himself into the proverbial immovable object.
"Fine," Lola stated flatly. "You want to talk, talk. But the conversation's going to be a little one-sided since I have absolutely nothing to say in regards to Mr. Ray Miller."
"Darien Fawkes," he corrected, "Ray Miller was the alias he was using when he was travelling with you, but his real name is Darien Fawkes."
"Fawkes, Miller, *whatever*," she said, tying the bandana back on her head. "I still have no intention of discussing him with you or anyone else for that matter." Lola turned away from Bobby and gave the bowl a few annoyed stirs, a generous dollop of the yellow stuff plopping out. She snatched up a towel and began wiping up the space on the spot.
Hobbes came over and stood next to her, placing the file he'd brought on the counter. "Here," he said. "That's Fawkes' life ... or at least the unclassified parts of it. I thought maybe you could read it and see that he was telling you the truth .... "
She snorted and gave a final swipe at the counter with her towel. "Frankly, Agent Hobbes, I don't think your friend would know the truth if it jumped up and bit him in the ass," she retorted.
It was Hobbes turn to snort, only his was bemused. This chick was a pistol of the same caliber as his sarcastic partner. If she and Fawkes didn't quip each other to death, they just might have something. "Look," he started, "I know you think he lied to you, but the fact of the matter is that most of what he told you is fact, documented right in this file right here." He tapped his index finger on the file on the counter.
Lola ignored him and crossed the room to a refrigerated case, where she pulled something out and then returned to the counter. The item she carried was round and creamy white with a brown grainy base. One sweet little crack split it right in the middle of the top. Hobbes' mouth began to water as she started spooning the thick yellow confection from the bowl over it, effectively hiding the crack.
"Oh man, that's not ..."
"Cheesecake, yes."
"With the ..."
"Pineapple on top, yup, uh huh," she nodded matter-of-factly, then finished up the topping and began cutting the cake into neat triangular servings.
Hobbes stared at the cake. "An honest-to-God, real, New York cheesecake?" he whispered reverently.
Lola stopped her automatic working motions at the tone of longing in his voice. For the first time she really looked at him and what she saw caused her to smile widely. "Agent Hobbes, would you like a slice of cheesecake?" Before he could answer, she'd put one on a nearby paper plate and was handing it to him with a plastic fork.
"Oh, no, hey, look, please, I wouldn't want you to go and ruin your cake just for me ...." Bobby eagerly took the proffered cake and slid the fork into it and then into his mouth.
"It's OK. That one is going to be sold by the slice and believe it or not, they actually go faster if there's one already missing. I guess nobody likes to be the first taster." She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. "Now go ahead and eat up. I guarantee one taste and you'll be right back at Lindy's on 42nd St."
"Oh. My. God. Back on 42nd St.?" Bobby waved his hands ecstatically then went back to shoveling cake into his mouth. "Sister, let me tell you, I'm in heaven."
Lola laughed. "It's the rum I put in the pineapple topping. Gives it a little extra kick."
"Oh, sweetheart, listen, if I didn't know Fawkes was into you, I'd be asking you to marry me right now on the basis of this cake alone." Bobby scooped up the last bit of cake, swallowed it whole and smacked his lips. "That was too good."
"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it. Now if you'll excuse me, Agent Hobbes, I have some pastries to finish before I can start closing the day's books so I can go home. I trust you can show yourself out." She put the cheesecake back into the refrigerator, then turned to exit the room, leaving the folder Hobbes had brought on the counter next to him.
"Hey, wait, you forgot Fawkes' folder," he called after her, grabbing the file and following her to the doorway.
"Really, Agent Hobbes, I don't see that there's anything in that folder that can tell me something I don't already know. Ray ... Darien ... Fawkes ... whatever your friend's name is today is a thief and a liar and that's all I really have to know, now isn't it?"
"No, it's not. What you need to know about Fawkes I can't tell you in one night and besides, you should learn it firsthand yourself anyway. Suffice it to say that in his own way, Fawkes was incredibly honest with you. Probably more honest than I would have been in his position. But that's Fawkes -- he always lets his heart get in the way of his head. I've seen him do it time and time again. Like when he took a bullet for a little girl. Or when he risked his own life to save mine. Let me tell you something, the man you know as Ray Miller is a real American hero."
"That's all very noble, but let me tell you what I know of him. For three days we were traveling together. Three days, that's all we had and I knew the risks I was taking. But like I told him in the car on the way home, I was prepared to accept the consequences of my actions. I was never asking him for more than he was willing to give," she stopped in mid-stream, gulped a deep breath, wiped her hands on her apron before continuing more slowly. "But goddammit, he should have been willing to at least give me his real name. That's not too much to ask for, is it?"
"No, no, it's not. And if I know Fawkes, he wanted to tell you. He just couldn't figure out how to do that and stick within the security limits of our job. As usual, my partner was trying to do the right thing by everybody and only wound up screwing himself worse," Hobbes shook his head and gave a dry snort, "But he never lied to you about the essence of who he was, that file will confirm that. The thieving, the prison stays, the dead mother, the murdered brother, the loss, the pain. It's all in there, all true. In the end, isn't that more important than whatever name he gave you?"
"I see, and if he's this bastion of honesty you'd have me believe he is, then why isn't he here instead of you?"
"Because you told him to stay away from you and in his own misguided way the kid is trying to be a gentleman by honoring that request."
"So he sent you as his second, eh, Cyrano?"
"Who?" Hobbes looked confused for a moment then the light of understanding dawned. "Oh, no, no. He has no idea that I'm here. In fact, if he ever found out, he'd feed me such a rash of shit ...."
"Well, you're a very good friend to him."
"Lady, we're more than friends. We're *partners*. And partners do for each other. This here, me and you," Hobbes pointed at himself and Lola, "This is no favor on my part. This is payback. A while ago there was someone I needed to talk to desperately and she wouldn't see me, so he went to her and pleaded my case for me. Now it's my turn to do the same."
"You must have loved her very much."
"Yes, I did," Hobbes pictured Viv standing on that ottoman having her wedding dress fitted as he tried to tell her one last time how he felt about her. "Still do as a matter of fact. Guess I always will."
"She left you then."
"Yeah, married some other guy, but hey, she's happy, so I'm happy."
"Not exactly a good example to use to help your friend's case with me, now is it?"
"Hey, I had years to screw up that relationship. Darien deserves the same at least."
"Well, Agent Hobbes," Lola laughed ruefully, "You're nothing if not eloquent."
Hobbes took the file and pressed it firmly in her hand. "Listen, just take the file, read it and make your own decision. You'll see he wasn't lying to you about himself, just his name." And before she could hand it back, he left.
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TBC
Author: Pipsqueak
Rating: PG-13 for the most part (one section will be posted separately in both PG-13 and NC-17 versions)
Spoilers: TOIM, Possessed, EoME, TNS, references to Ralph, FFH, GT, MM
Category: Angst, Drama, Action, Romance (or any combination thereof. Do not fold, spindle or mutilate)
Disclaimer: Not mine, except for Lola and a few other sundry characters I'll name later -- everyone else belongs to Sci Fi and Stu Segall, damn them (
A/N: Well, I once swore that I'd never write a sequel, just like I swore I'd never create an OFC. Apparently I am destined to eat every word I've ever said. 'Cuz this is a sequel to "Standing Still," a fanfic I originally posted back in Nov/Dec of 2001 and which features an OFC named Lola. It can be found in the Iman section at fanfiction.net (note to self: remember to send your stories to the QS archive) and while I'd recommend that you read that story first, I do think this one is capable of standing on its own. So please, read, hopefully enjoy, and feel free to contact me with any feedback or questions....
Mucho thanks to Suz for being such a wonderful beta and my own personal mad scientist. Hobbsey's all yours, sweetie! :-)
And an extra special 'Thank You' to Kitkat for being my on-scene expert. She's the one who made sure Darien & Hobbes wound up in a tres hip club and not at Seaworld :-p
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PART 1
According to the great French statesman, George Clemenceau, "A man's life is interesting primarily when he has failed -- I well know." Yeah, well so do I. In fact, by that definition, I've been a rousing success as a failure. 'Cuz I've sure had one hell of an interesting life. Not the least of which was recently when I met a really great girl and promptly made things interesting by lying to her about ... oh, I don't know, *everything*, including my name. Then I went psycho on her 'cuz I have a gland in my brain that turns me invisible and used to make me go nuts if I didn't get a shot on time. Then she got arrested and interrogated by my employer, The Agency, kinda the Kmart of the spook biz, 'cuz they thought she was with the CIA when in fact she was really just the owner of a local bakery. Oh, and did I mention that all that time we were being chased by Chrysalis, a super-secret organization bent on world domination through biotechnology? No wonder when the Chinese want to curse you they say that they "hope you live in interesting times." Yeah, the Chinese, man, don't even get me started on those guys ....
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"That's it, Fawkes, I'm going in alone." Hobbes reached for the door handle and Darien grabbed him by the shoulder, stopping him.
"Wait, Bobby, you can't..."
"No, that's it. I'm done arguing. We've been sitting here, holed up in this van, all morning watching people come in and outta that place. Bobby Hobbes is not gonna watch one more person come through that door and walk off with the goods."
"But Hobbes, you just can't walk in there alone."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"You gonna come with?"
"No...."
"Then watch me."
Hobbes reached for the door handle again and this time Darien let him exit the van unmolested. When Hobbes was determined to do something, there was simply no stopping him. Darien sighed, slumped in his seat and watched glumly as Hobbes crossed the street. His partner stopped in front of a large shop window chock full of tempting cakes and pastries, with the name "ChezLo" painted across the top in large, cursive gold letters. Hobbes suddenly gave a firm nod of his head at the window, then entered the shop. Oh man, this was gonna be *bad*.
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Five minutes later the little tiger was back, carrying a white paper sack and balancing two large coffee cups. He stopped at the driver's side door of the van and looked pointedly at Darien, who simply stared back. "C'mon, partner, open the door. Help me out here, for chrissakes."
Darien sighed again -- he seemed to be doing a lot of that these days -- and opened the door for Hobbes. He took the cups from the shorter man as Bobby climbed behind the wheel. "What did you do, Hobbes?"
"Whaddya mean, what did I do? I got us two latte grandes and a couple of the flakiest croissants you ever saw in your life. I mean, these things are so light, I keep expecting them to float away...."
"No, what did you *do*?"
"I don't know what you're talking about there, partner. Bobby Hobbes didn't do nothing, but get some coffee and breakfast, well, more like brunch since you made me wait so long," he tossed the white sack at Darien, "Oh, and one of those giant cookies that you like." He grinned expectantly at Darien, who reached into the sack and pulled out a gargantuan oatmeal cookie. "What, don't I even get a 'thank you'?"
"Thanks, Hobbsey," Darien said around a mouthful of cookie and swallowed. "Now tell me what else you did."
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"You didn't talk to her? You didn't see her?"
"Numero Uno, when Bobby Hobbes says he didn't do nothing, he didn't do nothing. Numero Two-o, Lola's hardly any more likely to talk to me than she is to you, my friend. You're forgetting, I arrested her and then let Monroe interrogate her. Somehow I don't think that put me too on high on that girl's social list."
"So you really didn't do anything?"
"Nope. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Bupkiss...."
"OK, Hobbes, OK, I got it."
"Good."
"But you're sure, right? You didn't say anything to anyone...?"
"Look, how many times do I got to say it? I. Didn't. Do. Nothing."
"You're sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
"OK, then." Darien sat for a few seconds, silently munching on his cookie. Halfway through it, he turned to Hobbes with furrowed brows and opened his mouth.
"Don't say it, Fawkes," Bobby cut Darien off with a menacing growl.
"But you're sure, Hobbes?"
"Yes. Yes. I'm *sure*. In fact, I'm sure, I'm sure."
"OK."
They drove on for a few more minutes. This time it was Hobbes who broke the silence.
"Goddammit, Fawkes, what the hell is wrong with you?"
"What do you mean?"
"I've known you to be a whiny punk, partner. In fact, I've learned that you are the frickin' crown prince of whining: about the gland, about the Agency. Hell, I've even heard you whine about having too much salt on your popcorn at the movies, when *you* salted it. But I have never, ever heard you whine about a girl before. Not even when Casey left. So what gives? What's so different about this girl?"
Darien just stared at his partner. Finally he looked down and said softly, simply, "I don't know."
"Yeah? Well, I know one thing, kid, you ain't gonna find out the answer to that question by hiding in the van outside her shop."
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Alex Monroe was already in the 'Fish's office when Darien and Hobbes entered, carrying the remnants of their breakfast. "You know, if you were going to make us wait," the five-star agent commented dryly, "the least you could have done was brought enough for all of us."
"Gee you know, Alex, we would have gotten something at the bakery for you, but we thought you were sweet enough already," Darien deadpanned, throwing her a sugary smile for good measure.
"Aw, and here I thought you were such a tough cookie," she retorted, giving him a matching smile.
"Enough," the Official's imperious tone brooked no argument. "You two want to trade bakery bon mots, do it on your own nickel. Some of us are here to *work*."
Bobby pulled at his collar and shuffled his feet, "Ah yes, sir, Agent Robert Hobbes ready for duty, sir. Have I mentioned recently what an honor I consider it to be back at the Department of Fish & Game? I mean, the Bureau of Weights and Measures just wasn't a prestigious enough organization to do your leadership justice, in my humble opinion, and the cases were ... well, to be frank, sir, they were a bit of a bore."
"Well, then prepared to be bored yet again, Agent Hobbes, because thanks to your partner's antics, we've got some payback due at the BWM."
"What?" The exclamation came out in triplicate as the three agents squawked in surprise.
Eberts smoothly slid up closer to his boss's right-hand side. "Apparently the bill has come due on the havoc wreaked on public and private property as a direct consequence of Darien's recent bout with Stage 5 madness. What with the destruction of an entire picnic area in Balboa Park, the damages assessed for mental pain and suffering for an entire family resulting from the disruption of a funeral, not to mention the replacement cost for one gold Rolex that appears to have been taken from the corpse at said funeral ...." the Agency's resident bean-counter looked up and cocked an eyebrow at Darien, who proffered his wrist with its leather-strapped watch as tacit proof of his innocence. Hobbes, meanwhile, surreptitiously pulled his jacket cuff down over his own wrist. "Hmm, yes, I see," the milquetoast mused.
"Suffice it to say, people," the 'Fish cut in, "that the bill due to the BWM is more than our current sponsor is willing to fund. Therefore, in order to solve this little budgetary crisis, we have agreed to complete one more case for the BWM as remuneration."
"So what is it?" Monroe, as usual, cut straight to the chase.
"It seems," Eberts picked up the narrative thread without batting an eyelash, "that there have been a number of complaints about the inaccurate weighing of produce items at small, independent, minority-owned shops around the city ...."
"What?" Darien cut in. "You mean some housewife complains about her plums being light from the corner bodega and we've got to put three trained agents on the case? Uh uh, no way."
The Official puffed up like a peacock displaying his feathers, "Agent Fawkes, the certification of the accuracy of the scales in our local marketplaces is a vital part of the free-trade policy that has made this nation great."
"Yeah, well, I think it's a stupid case and I'm not going work on it." Darien slid back in his chair and crossed his arms like a petulant five- year old.
"What?" His boss's voice lowered to a dangerous whisper, echoed only by a hushed, "uh oh," from the Fat Man's toady.
"You heard me. It's stupid and I ain't gonna do it. When I transferred back from the FBI, I told you, I wasn't going to work on any cases that I thought were stupid and this one here," Darien pointed a finger and stabbed the top of the 'Fish's desk to emphasize his point, "this is *stupid*. 'Sides, I got some great female wrestlin' videos I been meaning to check out ...."
"Aha, I see. Well, perhaps you might want to check with your fellow agents regarding their feelings about having to clean up your mess while you sit at home and watch scantily clad women grapple with each other," the 'Fish suggested as he leaned back in his chair, a Cheshire smile firmly in place.
Darien turned his head to his left -- the stare he got from Monroe could have cut diamonds. Then he turned his head to his right -- the look on Hobbes' face was so intense, he could have *made* diamonds. Darien gave a little shiver, decided a lifetime of peaceful sleep was worth a few days of boring work, and cleared his throat. "Ah, yah, I, ah, think I could, ah leave those videos on hold a while longer."
Bobby slapped Darien on the back. "Good answer there, partner."
"Yeah, way to be a team player, Fawkes," Monroe tossed out.
"Alright, why don't you two work out the details," Darien suggested to the senior agents. "Then Bobby, you can fill me in later when you meet me in the Keep. Right now it's time for my 50,000 mile check-up."
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Darien was sitting in the administering chair when Bobby entered the Keeper's lab. As usual, he was whining, "Do we really have to keep doing these check-ups *every* week, Keep?"
"Darien, you may no longer need counteragent to flush the Quicksilver toxins from your bloodstream but the fact remains that Quicksilver *is* an artificial substance saturating your system and the gland is a transgenic implant in your brain." Without skipping a beat in her scientific litany, Claire automatically slipped the blood pressure cuff on Darien's arm, pumped it up, deflated it and noted his pressure on her clipboard. Then she began flicking her pen light in his eyes. "There's no telling what effect any of this is going to have on your system long-term. And I'm still concerned about your eyesight."
"Alright, enough already!" Darien jumped from the chair. "This little lab rat's out of here." He slipped his jacket on and headed for the door, hands shoved in his pockets, head down. "You can tell the Fat Man I'm heading home. I'm sure we can start the great weigh-in on Monday."
The doors swished shut and Claire turned to Hobbes for an explanation. "What's set him off?"
"Oh, nothing. He's been moping ever since we got breakfast at the bakery this morning," he replied innocently."I'm telling you, I gain another 5 pounds every time Fawkes gets the yen to sit and mope."
"Oh, no, not Lola again? For God's sake why don't you just tell him to go talk to her?"
"Oh, gee ya think? C'mon, Claire, you know better than that -- that's *all* I been telling him for almost a month now but you know Fawkes. When he don't wanna listen, you can talk till you're blue in the face. And our Sir Galahad has got himself all convinced that he's doing the noble thing by honoring her wishes for him to stay away from her."
"Oh, she didn't really mean that. She was just angry and confused. I mean, it's not every day a girl gets arrested by a secret government agency and finds out the man she's just gotten involved with isn't who he said he was. But she's had plenty of time to cool down now ...."
"Listen, sister, you're preaching to the choir. I mean, I know that and you know that, but, Fawkes, he don't wanna know that. He's got himself all convinced that she hates him and nothing I've said has been able to penetrate that thick skull of his ... must be all that hair." Hobbes rubbed his own hairless head and quirked his eyebrows at Claire.
The blonde scientist sighed and leaned back against the administering chair. "Well, we've got to do something. You know the kind of trouble he gets into when he gets depressed."
"Yeah, well, I'm fresh outta ideas." Bobby casually propped himself up with one hand on the chair, sliding his arm conveniently close to Claire's waist. "What would you suggest there, Keepie?"
"I don't know but leaving him alone to stew in his own juices seems like a bad idea. Why don't you take him out for a guys' night on the town?"
"Ah, I see, kinda the 'ole 'the best way to forget a girl is to find another girl' thing?"
"Precisely -- that's the spirit!" She patted Hobbes on the shoulder for emphasis.
"Problem with that, Claire," he leaned in and lowered his voice, "is that if the first girl is the *right* girl, all the other chicks in the world ain't gonna make you forget her." And in one swift movement he winked at her, clicked his tongue, hitched his pants and turned on his heel, leaving her alone in the Keep to ponder his last words.
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Darien's phone was already on the third ring as he stepped through the door. Dropping his junk mail and a six-pack of his favorite Sierra Falls- brand brew on the counter, he reached over and grabbed the phone. "Fawkes," he stated.
"Hey partner, what's up," Bobby asked.
"Hobbes, man, I left you not 45 minutes ago. What could possibly happen in that amount of time?"
"With *you*?" Hobbes gave a wry laugh. "Anything."
"Hehe, painful, but true," Darien grimaced and shook his head. "What up, buddy?"
"Just wondering what you had planned for this weekend," Hobbes asked in his best nonchalant tone.
"Oh you know, just the usual Roman orgy," Darien rolled his eyes and wagged his head back and forth as he enumerated, "Naked slave girls, dwarves, circus animals ...."
"Aha, I see, which means sitting inside watching TV and reading those Cliff Notes of yours the whole time."
"No, no, it doesn't. As a matter of fact I'm planning on shooting some hoops Sunday morning ...."
Hobbes snorted. "Oh, that's great, you're a real playboy, ain'tcha?"
"And what would *you* suggest there, Mr. Hefner?"
"You, me, hitting the town, tonight."
Darien sighed, rubbed the heel of his palm against an eye, "Ya know what, Bobby? I'm just not up to it tonight, but hey, maybe tomorrow night ..."
"Yeah, right, Fawkes, tomorrow ...."
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Darien's doorbell rang about 7:30 p.m., right in the middle of his favorite Buffy repeat. He was tempted not to answer it, particularly since it was right when Spike gets the chip implanted in his brain, but the ringing had that persistent tone he had come to know oh so well. Looking through the peephole he confirmed his suspicions.
"Hobbes, man, I thought we agreed we were gonna do this *tomorrow* night," he whined as he opened the door.
"Now is that any way to greet your partner, partner?" Hobbes slid past Darien and went straight to the kitchen counter where he deposited a six- pack and what looked to be enough Chinese take-out to feed an army. "Especially when he comes bearing sustenance?"
Darien held up his already open beer in a toast. "Looks like great minds think alike there, bro."
"What, Fawkes, you drinking alone?"
"Hey, it's kinda hard not to when all you ever are is alone."
"Oh, I get it now, you're not drinking that beer, you're just crying into it," Hobbes observed as he cracked himself a brew and automatically scanned Darien's apartment. Sure enough, there were three already-empty bottles on the coffee table and not a dinner plate in sight. Picking up the bag of Chinese, he steered the taller man over to the couch and playfully knocked him down onto it. Then he shoved a container and a pair of chopsticks at Darien. "C'mon eat up, I got your favorite, Firecracker Beef."
"Well, I am kinda hungy," Darien said as he greedily reached out and snatched the container from Hobbes.
"I swear to God, kid, you are an eating *machine*," Hobbes shook his head as Darien began shoveling food into his mouth with gusto. "Course you could do with putting some meat on them scrawny bones of yours, you know? Might stop the mooks from knocking you on your ass all the time. I mean that in itself is a reason for you to go and see Lola. She works in a bakery, maybe she could fatten you up a bit ...."
Darien stopped chewing and shoved his chopsticks upright into his container. "Aw man, Hobbes, we are *not* gonna have this conversation again, are we?"
"Yes, yes, we are. You know, Fawkes, I can count the number of times I've seen you drunk on one hand and three of those times were in the last month. Tonight ...."
"Hobbes, man, I am *not* drunk ...."
"You had four beers by yourself -- that qualifies," Hobbes continued to tick off with his fingers. "*Tonight*, the night you came to your senses and returned to the Agency ...."
"Hey, that doesn't count. That was necessary to get the icky taste of being 'officialed' out of my mouth. 'Sides, as I recall, you and Claire were pretty well in your cups there too that night. So you never did tell me, did you get the good doctor to give you a checkup when you drove her home? Huh?" Darien grinned goofily and began nudging Hobbes in the middle with his elbow.
Hobbes grimaced at Darien and moved to the chair. "Bobby Hobbes would never kiss and tell on a lady. And stop trying to change the subject. Now, as I was sayin', tonight ..." up came a finger, "two weeks ago ..." up popped another finger, "and two weeks before that when Lola stormed out of the Agency," a third and final finger came up. "Now I've asked you before, but *this time* I want an answer, Fawkes: What is it about this girl that is so different?"
Darien put the food container down, shook his head, took another swig of his beer. "I don't know. Maybe it's *me* that's different. When I left the Agency and went to the FBI, it occurred to me that I'd lost *everyone*. I had no one of my own, no one who cared about me enough to stick with me ...."
"You know, *I* care about you, partner and I'd stick with you no matter what ...."
"No offense, Hobbes, but that's not the kind of caring I'm talking about here. It's like Simon Cole, you know. I just keep going back to him and Ivy Peterson."
Bobby nodded at the mention of the Agency's first invisible man whose memories had invaded his partner's brain courtesy of the Quicksilver gland they'd shared. Ivy Peterson had been Cole's lover and seeing her had been one of the first things Simon had done when he'd been 'resurrected' in Fawkes' body.
Darien got up from the couch and began pacing around the living room. "I mean, I had him in my *head*, Hobbes. And maybe I don't have all his memories anymore, maybe they were all flushed away when Claire gave me that anti-peptide shot or whatever it was, but I know one thing: He *loved* her, really loved her. Enough to come back for her. Enough to risk everything to make the world a better place for her. Do you know what that's like, Bobby?" Darien stopped pacing in front of the window, staring out at the soft velvet blue of the evening sky, his face half in shadow. "'Cuz I don't. I don't think I've ever loved anyone that much. But I want to, and I think maybe Lola's the kind of girl I could have done that with -- if I hadn't screwed it up like I did ... like I always do."
Hobbes got up quietly, crossed the room and gently pulled on the younger man's arm until they were facing each other. "Yeah, kid, I do know what it's like. Which is why I'm telling you now, go and see that girl. Don't make the same mistake I did with Viv," Bobby cleared his throat as he bit off his ex-wife's name. "I left it too long and by the time I was ready to tell her how I felt about her, she had given up on me for another man. If you think there's even the slightest chance you could have something with this girl, don't wait, go see her." Hobbes reached up, put a hand lightly on the back of his partner's neck and looked directly into his eyes. "Darien," he said softly, "I mean it. If you never take another piece of advice from me, take this one: Go see Lola. Ask her to forgive you."
Darien shook free of the older man's comforting hands. "I can't, Bobby, I ... just can't."
"Why the hell not?" Hobbes roared as his frustration finally got the better of him.
Darien hung his head and returned to the sofa, grabbing his beer again like a security blanket. "'Cuz what do I do if she says 'no'?"
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Hobbes breathed in a lungful of not-so-fresh air as he exited the industrial-looking apartment building. Man, Fawkes definitely did not live in the better section of town. Bobby thought contentedly of his own little place by the marina and wondered what the kid liked so much about this joint. Maybe he felt at home living among the riffraff that made this section of the city their own, but couldn't he see that he didn't belong with them anymore? Hobbes shook his head. His partner had changed so much from the antisocial, self-centered prick he'd been when they'd first met. Yeah, he was still more often than not a whiney brat, but he'd found a better way of life and he'd decided -- chosen, mind you, not been forced into it -- to stay on the straight and narrow and work to make the world a better place. Why Darien couldn't just let himself be happy was beyond Bobby; God knew the kid deserved a little bit of happiness.
Well, it was 10:43, Fawkes was sleeping it off upstairs, the night was young and he had two more stops to make. Hobbes began whistling as he scanned the area, then confidently made his way to the van. 'If Mohammed won't go to the mountain,' he thought, 'then I'm just gonna have to make the mountain come to Mohammed.'
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It was just under an hour and a quarter later when Hobbes pulled his van up in front of the bakery, having spent a little longer at The Agency than he'd planned. He should have paid more attention to Eberts when the Fat Man had sentenced him to purgatory in the Agency's file room to atone for the sin of complaining. Then again, he hadn't expected the little nerd's filing system would someday be "need to know" information.
With a manila folder tucked tightly under his arm, Hobbes hopped out of the van and inspected the bakery window. The lights in the front of the shop were off and a sign on the door proclaimed, "Closed," but it was a Friday night and he suspected that the rear of the shop was a different story. Rounding the corner briskly, Hobbes located the alley that backed onto Lola's store, automatically scanning his surroundings the whole time. Sure enough he could see a light shining through the window of the shop's rear entrance.
The sounds of a radio blaring Sheryl Crow's "My Favorite Mistake" and an extremely off-key female voice enthusiastically parroting the lyrics greeted Bobby's ears as he came down the dingy passageway. He paused to knock on the back door, decided whoever was inside would never hear him over the musical caterwauling, and tried the knob. The door was locked, but with a little strategic jiggling, it opened easily. 'Definitely *not* a secure environment,' was Hobbes' silent professional assessment.
The back room was some sort of storeroom or pantry, with immense sacks of flour, sugar and other sundry baking ingredients lined up along the walls. To his immediate right was the shiny stainless door of a refrigerated storeroom, where he supposed the more perishable items were kept. The light -- and the noise -- however, was coming from the room directly in front of him.
Passing through the storeroom, he entered the brightly lit space only to be greeted by the sight of Lola standing at a long counter with her back to him and singing along with the radio at the top of her lungs. He watched for a moment as the petite brunette stirred a large bowl of what appeared to be thick yellow jam, mindlessly bopping up and down on her little legs and shaking her bandana-covered head to the rhythm of the music.
"Ah, you need a better lock on that door," he shouted out by way of announcing his arrival.
Lola let out a yelp and jumped back from the counter. Whirling on him, she threw her hands to her chest. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," she exclaimed, "what the hell are you trying to do? Give me a frickin' heart attack?" Then her head snapped back and she froze in recognition. "Oh, it's *you*."
"Hey, you're lucky it's just me and not some punk trying to clean out your cash register," he answered, still yelling over the radio. "Could we maybe turn that down some, do you think?"
Her deep blue eyes never leaving his cognac-colored ones, she reached over to the counter behind her and jabbed at the radio's power switch. "Somehow, Agent Hobbes, I do not associate seeing you with being lucky," she said into the sudden silence. "Let's see, you've already handcuffed and detained me against my will once, what's it gonna be this time? I mean, how do you follow up wrongful arrest? Got a new Taser you want to try out?" Lola screwed her pretty face into a sneer and practically spat at him. "And where's the lovely Agent Monroe? After all, it wouldn't be a party without her playing hostess in that padded cell, now would it?"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down there, sister," Bobby held his hands out in front of him. "I come in peace."
Lola snorted. "What do you want, Agent Hobbes?" The chill in her tone could have solved the global warming crisis.
"Just to talk to you. You know, have a little friendly chit-chat ...," Bobby smiled hopefully at her.
"About what?"
"Oh you know, just shootin' the breeze about how you're doin', how I'm doin', how Fawkes is doin' ...."
"No." She crossed her arms and resolved her lips into a thin, downward facing line.
Bobby waited a minute for her to elaborate and when she didn't, he quirked his eyes at her and shrugged. "What? That's it? Just 'no'? No 'maybe', no 'possibly', no 'what's going on with him that we need to talk about'? Just 'no'?"
"Yes." Lola nodded a brief affirmation.
"Good, good, that's what I like to hear. Accentuate the positive, Bobby Hobbes always says, give the guy the benefit of the doubt," Hobbes enthused, then shook his head. "OK, wait a minute, I'm confused. Was that 'yes' you want to know what I came to tell you or 'yes' you meant just 'no' before?"
"Tell me something, Agent Hobbes. Are conversations with you always this convoluted?"
"Ah, uhm, yeah, I think so. I mean, that's a good thing, right?"
"No, it's not a good thing, at least not from where I'm standing anyway," Lola sighed, pulled the bandana from her head and ran a hand through her dark, chin-length hair. "Look, it's late and I'm tired. Why don't you just go home?"
"Because you need to know some things about Fawkes and I came here to make sure you got the intell," Bobby pointed to the file in his hands. "So unless you're planning on physically moving me, you'd best resign yourself to hearing me out." Planting his feet, he stood ramrod straight transforming himself into the proverbial immovable object.
"Fine," Lola stated flatly. "You want to talk, talk. But the conversation's going to be a little one-sided since I have absolutely nothing to say in regards to Mr. Ray Miller."
"Darien Fawkes," he corrected, "Ray Miller was the alias he was using when he was travelling with you, but his real name is Darien Fawkes."
"Fawkes, Miller, *whatever*," she said, tying the bandana back on her head. "I still have no intention of discussing him with you or anyone else for that matter." Lola turned away from Bobby and gave the bowl a few annoyed stirs, a generous dollop of the yellow stuff plopping out. She snatched up a towel and began wiping up the space on the spot.
Hobbes came over and stood next to her, placing the file he'd brought on the counter. "Here," he said. "That's Fawkes' life ... or at least the unclassified parts of it. I thought maybe you could read it and see that he was telling you the truth .... "
She snorted and gave a final swipe at the counter with her towel. "Frankly, Agent Hobbes, I don't think your friend would know the truth if it jumped up and bit him in the ass," she retorted.
It was Hobbes turn to snort, only his was bemused. This chick was a pistol of the same caliber as his sarcastic partner. If she and Fawkes didn't quip each other to death, they just might have something. "Look," he started, "I know you think he lied to you, but the fact of the matter is that most of what he told you is fact, documented right in this file right here." He tapped his index finger on the file on the counter.
Lola ignored him and crossed the room to a refrigerated case, where she pulled something out and then returned to the counter. The item she carried was round and creamy white with a brown grainy base. One sweet little crack split it right in the middle of the top. Hobbes' mouth began to water as she started spooning the thick yellow confection from the bowl over it, effectively hiding the crack.
"Oh man, that's not ..."
"Cheesecake, yes."
"With the ..."
"Pineapple on top, yup, uh huh," she nodded matter-of-factly, then finished up the topping and began cutting the cake into neat triangular servings.
Hobbes stared at the cake. "An honest-to-God, real, New York cheesecake?" he whispered reverently.
Lola stopped her automatic working motions at the tone of longing in his voice. For the first time she really looked at him and what she saw caused her to smile widely. "Agent Hobbes, would you like a slice of cheesecake?" Before he could answer, she'd put one on a nearby paper plate and was handing it to him with a plastic fork.
"Oh, no, hey, look, please, I wouldn't want you to go and ruin your cake just for me ...." Bobby eagerly took the proffered cake and slid the fork into it and then into his mouth.
"It's OK. That one is going to be sold by the slice and believe it or not, they actually go faster if there's one already missing. I guess nobody likes to be the first taster." She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. "Now go ahead and eat up. I guarantee one taste and you'll be right back at Lindy's on 42nd St."
"Oh. My. God. Back on 42nd St.?" Bobby waved his hands ecstatically then went back to shoveling cake into his mouth. "Sister, let me tell you, I'm in heaven."
Lola laughed. "It's the rum I put in the pineapple topping. Gives it a little extra kick."
"Oh, sweetheart, listen, if I didn't know Fawkes was into you, I'd be asking you to marry me right now on the basis of this cake alone." Bobby scooped up the last bit of cake, swallowed it whole and smacked his lips. "That was too good."
"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it. Now if you'll excuse me, Agent Hobbes, I have some pastries to finish before I can start closing the day's books so I can go home. I trust you can show yourself out." She put the cheesecake back into the refrigerator, then turned to exit the room, leaving the folder Hobbes had brought on the counter next to him.
"Hey, wait, you forgot Fawkes' folder," he called after her, grabbing the file and following her to the doorway.
"Really, Agent Hobbes, I don't see that there's anything in that folder that can tell me something I don't already know. Ray ... Darien ... Fawkes ... whatever your friend's name is today is a thief and a liar and that's all I really have to know, now isn't it?"
"No, it's not. What you need to know about Fawkes I can't tell you in one night and besides, you should learn it firsthand yourself anyway. Suffice it to say that in his own way, Fawkes was incredibly honest with you. Probably more honest than I would have been in his position. But that's Fawkes -- he always lets his heart get in the way of his head. I've seen him do it time and time again. Like when he took a bullet for a little girl. Or when he risked his own life to save mine. Let me tell you something, the man you know as Ray Miller is a real American hero."
"That's all very noble, but let me tell you what I know of him. For three days we were traveling together. Three days, that's all we had and I knew the risks I was taking. But like I told him in the car on the way home, I was prepared to accept the consequences of my actions. I was never asking him for more than he was willing to give," she stopped in mid-stream, gulped a deep breath, wiped her hands on her apron before continuing more slowly. "But goddammit, he should have been willing to at least give me his real name. That's not too much to ask for, is it?"
"No, no, it's not. And if I know Fawkes, he wanted to tell you. He just couldn't figure out how to do that and stick within the security limits of our job. As usual, my partner was trying to do the right thing by everybody and only wound up screwing himself worse," Hobbes shook his head and gave a dry snort, "But he never lied to you about the essence of who he was, that file will confirm that. The thieving, the prison stays, the dead mother, the murdered brother, the loss, the pain. It's all in there, all true. In the end, isn't that more important than whatever name he gave you?"
"I see, and if he's this bastion of honesty you'd have me believe he is, then why isn't he here instead of you?"
"Because you told him to stay away from you and in his own misguided way the kid is trying to be a gentleman by honoring that request."
"So he sent you as his second, eh, Cyrano?"
"Who?" Hobbes looked confused for a moment then the light of understanding dawned. "Oh, no, no. He has no idea that I'm here. In fact, if he ever found out, he'd feed me such a rash of shit ...."
"Well, you're a very good friend to him."
"Lady, we're more than friends. We're *partners*. And partners do for each other. This here, me and you," Hobbes pointed at himself and Lola, "This is no favor on my part. This is payback. A while ago there was someone I needed to talk to desperately and she wouldn't see me, so he went to her and pleaded my case for me. Now it's my turn to do the same."
"You must have loved her very much."
"Yes, I did," Hobbes pictured Viv standing on that ottoman having her wedding dress fitted as he tried to tell her one last time how he felt about her. "Still do as a matter of fact. Guess I always will."
"She left you then."
"Yeah, married some other guy, but hey, she's happy, so I'm happy."
"Not exactly a good example to use to help your friend's case with me, now is it?"
"Hey, I had years to screw up that relationship. Darien deserves the same at least."
"Well, Agent Hobbes," Lola laughed ruefully, "You're nothing if not eloquent."
Hobbes took the file and pressed it firmly in her hand. "Listen, just take the file, read it and make your own decision. You'll see he wasn't lying to you about himself, just his name." And before she could hand it back, he left.
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TBC